I'm Yours Forever
by TragicBlackButterfly
Summary: Quirrellmort AU based on the The Soulmate Counter. Voldemort never wanted to meet his soulmate. He thought the whole thing was ridiculous and a waste of time. Only his soulmate would be able to change his mind. Based on characters from Starkid's A Very Potter Musical (AVPM). Title subject to change. I own nothing!
1. Soulmate

**Thank you in advance for reading! I own nothing. Based on the The Soulmate Counter from tumblr. Also, this is a Muggle AU, as well as a Soulmate one. I hope you enjoy!**

One thing that Voldemort learned very young was that the counter on his wrist was a fucking waste of space, and if one was to ask him, he would inform them rather coldly that he did not care when the timer hit zero. He didn't care one bit whether he met his soulmate or not. The whole thing was stupid, ridiculous, and not for him.

Tom Riddle didn't give a shit about love or affection. He'd discovered early on that only the privileged got the big breaks and the attention, and an orphan like him was forgotten and lost in the system. His mom had died giving birth to him, and his father disowned him, so he had the misfortune of growing up in an orphanage. It wasn't so bad, really. The adults were nice to him, the kids were obnoxious little assholes who made fun of the way he looked, so he taught himself young to bully them right back. Soon, he was feared throughout the orphanage not only for his face, but for his disposition too. Tom Riddle was no more; he went by Voldemort, and God help anyone who called him otherwise.

That was another reason why he didn't give a shit about finding his soulmate. Who the fuck would want him? His face was gaunt and unattractive to look at, with his sunken eyes and snakelike nose. He kept his hair slicked back to give people the prime view, though. Then they didn't even think about approaching him.

He tried not to watch the timer on his wrist as it counted down from twenty years to fifteen years then to ten. He was a teenager by then and ran away from the orphanage he had been living at. Nobody noticed he was gone, and those who did were probably glad to be rid of him. He ignored the timer as he traveled the streets, and he soon gathered a gang of followers that he called Death Eaters. All of them either feared or respected him or both, and he hated every single one of them. The women threw themselves at him, eager to taste his power, and he fucked them well enough, losing himself momentarily in the meaningless sex. And every night, he tried not to look at that timer as it ticked closer and closer to the moment when he would meet the person that should be the most important in his life.

He didn't think about what his soulmate would be like. Whether they would be young or attractive, snobbish or boring. Male or female. It didn't matter to him. He refused to consider who or what they would be. After all, why should he when he didn't plan on having anything to do with them when he did find them? He was a self-proclaimed asshole, a real piece of work, and they'd undoubtedly be some wonderful humanitarian or something like that.

"Probably some flowery moron," Voldemort hissed to his reflection in the public restroom. He was twenty-three, and the timer on his wrist said one hour. One fucking hour until he would encounter his soulmate. He nervously slicked back his hair again with sweaty hands, and he growled in frustration at himself for being so unhinged. He stared at his reflection, startled to see his eyes widened in anxiety. That was an expression he never wore, an expression beneath him. That pathetic look is what his prey usually wore when he harassed them or his peons whenever he yelled at them. But he, Voldemort, the ruler of the streets, the commander of the Death Eaters, to be shaking like a wet mutt? It was pitiful!

"Snap out of it, Voldemort! You're going to ignore them anyways, no matter who they are!" He splashed a bit of cold water on his face and then dried it with a scratchy paper towel. Ugh, this place was filthy. He wrinkled his nose and used a paper towel to open the door, tossing it back in behind him as he exited.

"My lord, what are we doing here?" Bellatrix was one of Voldemort's most faithful followers and fuck-buddies. She had untamed black hair and rich, dark skin, and Voldemort always thought her eyes were as malicious and wild as he was. She made perfect evil plans with him, and he couldn't deny that she _was_ pretty good in the bed or against the wall or wherever the fuck else he decided to have his way with her.

She also had a damn good point. The library was not one of their most frequented of haunts. Most of his Death Eaters liked to roam the streets and alleyways, tormenting unsuspecting fools who tried to take a shortcut through the dark streets. But this was all part of Voldemort's plan to avoid his soulmate. Whoever the fuck he or she was, they certainly wouldn't be in the bloody _library_. Voldemort _surely_ wouldn't have some ruddy _nerd_ for a soulmate.

"I wanted a change of scenery," he insisted grumpily as he ducked down a deserted isle of books. Mythology. He sneered at a book of Poseidon and continued sulking. Trixie didn't know about Voldemort's determination to avoid his soul mate. In fact, as far as any of his Death Eaters knew, Voldemort's timer had long ago reached zero, and he just didn't give a fuck. Bellatrix still had a couple of years on her timer, and Malloy had married his soulmate a few months back. Sure, they were happy enough, but Lucius had actually _wanted_ to find his soulmate so that they could conceive an heir to carry on his name. Voldemort didn't give a shit; he hated his filthy father's name and would rather die than let some poor kid inherit the title like he did.

"But the library? I don't understand," Bellatrix followed him, absently taking books out of place and sticking them far away from where they belonged. Some sap was going to have fun later. "This place is boring. Unless you have an idea to liven things up?" She dashed around him and bounced in place, her curls bobbing through the air. "Do you want to have sex in the library? Scare away the little bookworms as they study?"

"Is sex _all_ you think about?" he grumbled and snaked around her again. He almost turned down another isle but changed his mind when he saw the Biology books. He risked a glance at his timer. Thirty minutes. That couldn't be right. It said an hour not even five minutes ago. He slicked back his hair again, the sweat from his palms only making it look worse. He swallowed and followed the path into the Biology section.

"My lord, are you feeling okay?" Bellatrix caught up to him, and she eyed him up and down curiously, lingering a little longer on his ass than she should. He wished there was a way to get rid of her, but she followed him fucking _everywhere_. "Perhaps raising some hell would improve your mood?"

"Go for it," he muttered with a roll of his eyes. He didn't want to draw attention to himself just now! He had to wait until the coast was clear. Until that timer said zero, he wasn't safe. His soulmate could be anywhere, just waiting to pounce on him.

Twenty minutes. Shit, was this how time always went? His fingers twitched, and he scratched a place on his arm that didn't itch. At the end of the isle, Trixie had taken a little girl's book and was now dangling it just out of her reach, and Voldemort cringed when the damn brat started crying. Huffing, Bellatrix dropped the book on the ground and trotted down the next isle, while Voldemort trailed behind her.

Fifteen minutes. Would they even notice him? Or would his soulmate take one glance at his face and cringe away like most people did? They might be so disgusted and appalled that they don't notice their timer has stopped. What if _he_ doesn't notice his timer has stopped? He could walk right past his soulmate and not even realize it. No, that was what he wanted. Voldemort didn't even want to acknowledge their existence. They weren't important. Just because they were his soulmate didn't give them special significance or anything. He wasn't even remotely curious who they were.

Ten minutes. Bellatrix had dashed ahead and turned into the next isle, probably tormenting some poor idiot. Voldemort was glad she was out of sight; he didn't want her to see him losing his cool. He tried to swallow, but it felt like his throat had closed off. His lips were dry. His ears pounded, and he stopped to lean against the stack of books for a moment, appalled at himself. He was Voldemort, leader of the Death Eaters! Something as stupid as a soulmate shouldn't unnerve him so easily! He grabbed a random book off the shelf and opened it up, smiling at the pictures of the snakes. If there was one thing Voldemort loved, it was snakes. He often thought that he looked like a snake, and they had a pretty bad rep like him.

Yes, this was nice. He took a breath and flipped through the pages, surveying a nice picture of a basilisk. He almost forgot to look at the timer. Five minutes. He flipped the pages a few times, but by now he noticed his fingers shaking. Roughly, he shoved the book back into place, desperate for movement, and went in search of Bellatrix. Two minutes. If he provided a moving target, maybe his soulmate would be less likely to zero in on him?

He could hear her laughing in the next isle, so he quickly ducked down the Botany section, scanning around for anybody nearby. He only had a couple seconds to see her shaking the ladder before a thin body fell on top of him, and they toppled to the floor. The crash attracted a group of people, all trying to help the two of them up, but Bellatrix shoved her way to the front of them to yank the man off of Voldemort.

"How _dare_ you!" she snarled at the unsuspecting man, grabbing him by his collar. "How dare you fall on Lord Voldemort, leader of the Death Eaters!"

"It-it's your fault!" he stammered in response. "You sh-shook my ladder!"

"Do not make excuses at me, you pathetic little—"

"Chill out, Bellatrix!" She was starting to cause a scene in the middle of the library, and Voldemort intervened before somebody called the cops. He grabbed her wrist and forced her to let go of the poor guy, and she followed him back a couple of steps. Some more people had gathered, and such a big crowd made his skin prickle. "Why don't you get out of here? You're embarrassing me!"

"I'm only trying to protect your honor!" she pleaded, her eyes wide in horror at knowing she had displeased him.

"Yeah, well, it's your fault he fell on me in the first place," he grumpily reminded, making sure to drip enough venom from his words for her to get the hint. "I want to be left alone. Your attempts at improving my mood have failed. Go meddle somewhere else."

Bellatrix floundered for something to say, anything to change his mind, but anyone who knew Voldemort knew that he _didn't_ change his mind. Whatever he said was final, and she was better off listening if she didn't want to be in more trouble with him. She shot the stranger a nasty look before haughtily storming out of the isle. Voldemort could hear her yelling at people the whole way out, and he sullenly sighed and shook his head. That woman didn't know the meaning of the word discrete. Voldemort hastily glanced down at the timer, stunned to see the little zeros at last.

It had happened. He'd met his soulmate, and he hadn't even been paying attention. There had been so many people there, it could've been any of them! Not that it mattered to him. Sure, he'd been curious, but he'd never intended on actually _meeting_ them. So why the fuck did pathetic disappointment sour his stomach?

"You didn't need to be so hard on her," said a calm voice from behind him. Voldemort turned to look at the man that Bellatrix had dumped on him, having nearly forgotten about him. He was dusting off his shirt, eying Voldemort warily as though he might give the guy more trouble.

"Yeah, I did." Now that the spectators were departing, Voldemort's nerves started to settle. He swallowed the bitterness and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from staring at the timer on his wrist. After all, it wasn't like the clock would magically start up again. "If I'm not perfectly clear with her, she'll find some way to put words in my mouth and change what I'm saying for her benefit. Besides, she's been hovering and pissing me off all day. I'm glad to be rid of her."

"That's not a very nice way to talk about your girlfriend."

Voldemort shrugged. "She's not my girlfriend."

"So what is she, your follower?"

"You got it. My follower and my whore."

The man rolled his eyes, slightly disgusted, and for some reason, Voldemort didn't want the guy to look at him like that. For the first time, he got a really good look at the man. His brown eyes were guarded, but Voldemort could see the kindness behind them. Plus, he was pretty attractive for a guy, and Voldemort could tell he was genuinely a good guy. He glanced down, just noticing the books that were littered around them, and he bent to hastily pick them up.

"Sorry about her," he muttered in annoyance, wishing he hadn't made the whore comment. "She likes to cause trouble and gets overexcited all the time."

"It's, um… It's all right. I'm used to it." He graciously accepted the books from Voldemort, managing a tiny, shy smile, and Voldemort couldn't help but think he was adorable.

"Yeah, but she did all that because of me; I feel kinda responsible. And, uh, sorry. For the way I talked about her a minute ago. Stressful day."

"I can understand that." The man furrowed his brow a little, as though trying to figure him out, and Voldemort squirmed a little under the scrutiny. He must have reached a conclusion after a few seconds because he extended his hand and offered another timid smile. "I'm Quirrell."

"Voldemort." He shook Quirrell's hand, wondering at the unexpected relief he felt. Quirrell was just some random guy, why did his opinion of Voldemort even matter so damn much?

"Is that your real name?" Quirrell nearly laughed, and Voldemort couldn't help but grin. Damn, he really needed to stop being so infectiously cute.

"I don't like my real name, so I don't use it." He shrugged a little.

"Why don't you like your name?"

"Because my father disowned me when I was a baby, and I'm named after him. I don't want to be constantly reminded of an asshole who didn't want me." What? What the hell was this? Voldemort just didn't _open up _to anyone! Even Bellatrix didn't know why he refused his real name, but this guy he just met got it out of him when a single question? He had to be sick or something. Talking to Quirrell just felt so alarmingly _natural_.

"Oh. I'm really sorry." And he could tell that Quirrell really _was_ sorry. Nobody had ever felt bad for him before. He swallowed the agitation, every instinct in him screaming at him to stay guarded. Don't get attached to Quirrell. You'll just get hurt in the end. That's how it's always worked.

Voldemort realized he was still holding Quirrell's hand, and he hastily let go. Quirrell stared at him, puzzled, and he needed to change the subject. "So what kind of name is Quirrell?"

"My last name?" This time, Quirrell did chuckle, and Voldemort thought it was the best thing he'd ever heard. "My first name is Quirinus, but everyone used to tease me about it. So I just go by Quirrell. Besides, it sounds like _squirrel_, and I do like those." Dear _God_, could he get any more precious? What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Makes sense," Voldemort muttered in agreement. He could already guess numerous ways to insult Quirrell with his name, but he kept those to himself. Anybody else, and he would've been all over the taunts and jeers. Why made this random guy so different?

Quirrell shifted a little, biting his lip, and Voldemort could tell that he was looking for an escape route. Might as well help him out. A clean break was a good idea, anyways. Voldemort would never see him again. It wasn't like Voldemort frequented the library, and he could already tell that he didn't fit in Quirrell's world. Quirrell was the kind of person who had a decent life and people who cared about him. Voldemort would just ruin that. For all he knew, Quirrell even had found his soulmate. Voldemort didn't fit at all. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, wishing he could ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I should, uh… probably get going. People are still staring, and I'm pretty sure the librarian wants me out of here." Voldemort grimaced a little and finally broke eye contact with Quirrell, eager to get away from him while he still had his wits about him. "Sorry again about the Bellatrix thing."

"Wait!" Quirrell's voice stopped him just as he was turning away. "Which way are you headed? W-we could walk together? If you want, that is."

What? Had Voldemort heard him right? He looked up at Quirrell, who averted his eyes to the floor, his ears pink. Yeah, he'd said what Voldemort thought he had. Fuck! Fuck it all. He'd almost gotten away from the guy without being too involved. He could easily say no, right? He could ignore that hopeful expression on Quirrell's face and just tell him no, he didn't want to walk with him. He didn't want anything to do with him.

"Well, I'm not really going anywhere in particular. Whichever way you're headed?" Voldemort smiled a little uneasily at Quirrell, who beamed in response.

"Wonderful! I just need to check out these books, then we can leave." He motioned for Voldemort to follow him up to the counter, and Voldy couldn't help but notice him glance at his wrist then survey the room quickly. Quirrell deflated a little and grimaced in regret.

"Something wrong?" Voldemort looked around as well, searching for someone staring at them. He didn't want to cause Quirrell any trouble.

"Oh! Oh, no. No, everything's fine." Quirrell checked out his books and said goodbye to the librarian at the counter, some young chick who smiled flirtatiously at him. Voldemort gave her a dirty glare before they left, and he was pleased to see that she immediately backed off. Mystified by her reaction, Quirrell followed Voldemort out of the library and pointed him in the right direction of his place.

They walked quietly for a bit, with Quirrell lovingly holding his books and Voldemort keeping his hands in his pockets. It was late afternoon by now, and the sidewalk was littered with people, so they had to walk close together. Pedestrians passing them cast Voldemort alarmed and disgruntled glances, and Quirrell either didn't notice or pretended not to.

Voldemort needed to get his mind off the people. "So…botany?"

"Oh, these?" Quirrell smiled down at the few books he had checked out of the library. "I like flowers. I can't really plant any right now, so reading about them is the closest I can get." He looked over at Voldemort, who had been trying not to grin, and he frowned slightly. "What?"

"Nothing! Why flowers?"

Quirrell pouted a little. "I think they're fascinating and beautiful, and they're quite like people, you know? They can be cruel and gentle, and they wither and die like we do. I've just always loved them. Lame, huh?"

"No, it's not lame," Voldemort said, and he meant it, too. "You should be allowed to love whatever you want without worrying about what people think. I chuckled because you, I dunno… You look like someone that would love flowers, so it didn't really surprise me."

"You think so?" Quirrell brightened, and Voldemort found his excitement infectious.

"Damn right I do!" Voldemort couldn't believe how easy it was to smile around Quirrell. He never smiled this much not even around Bellatrix or any of his other Death Eaters. They didn't make him happy the way Quirrell did, for whatever reason.

"So what is it that you like?" Quirrell nudged Voldemort back to earth, his head tilted curiously, and Voldemort chuckled a little.

"I don't really like anything. I don't do much for fun."

"Come on, there has to be something! Something you love that you're afraid to tell your club about."

Now Voldemort laughed. "They're a gang, not a club. And I don't tell them anything anyways. They just follow me around and cause trouble. I guess…" He paused, considering. "I guess if I had to choose something I like, it would be dancing."

"Dancing? What kind of dancing?"

"Every kind of dancing! Jazz, ballet, ballroom, tap, you name it! I don't know why I like it so much. I guess when I'm dancing, I don't worry about what people are thinking about me. Whether my face is bothering them or not."

Quirrell frowned at him disapprovingly. "Why should your face bother anybody?"

"Come on, Quirrell! I know you're not blind. I'm not exactly what you'd call attractive." Voldemort shrugged, having learned to deal with it when he was a kid. It didn't bug him as much anymore; it just made his life a little rough sometimes.

"Maybe you just haven't asked the right person." Quirrell looked bothered by that. Voldemort thought he was becoming more and more endearing the longer they talked.

They walked a little further, their conversation tapering off again into a comfortable silence. Voldemort liked being with him, whether they were chatting or just walking like that. Being around Quirrell was simple and easy, more so than any of his Death Eaters. Hell, he'd take Quirrell over Bellatrix any day. It wasn't until Quirrell stopped in front of a tiny apartment building that Voldemort realized how much he was going to miss the guy. Quirrell hugged his books tight against him.

"Well, this is it." He smiled timidly again, unsure what to do next. "Um, thank you. For walking with me this far. Sorry if it was out of your way."

"No, I enjoyed myself. It's been awhile since I just chatted with someone." Now how did he leave? Usually, people just pushed him away until he got the hint. Quirrell wasn't doing any of that. He actually looked a little disappointed that Voldemort would be going.

"You wouldn't like to come in for a drink or anything, would you? I have tea, coffee, something stronger. You could rest up before you go? I don't know how far you have to walk…" Quirrell fidgeted nervously.

"I don't wanna impose…" Voldemort's tone surprised him. He almost sounded _hopeful_, not gruff or rude or malevolent. He actually wanted to spend more time with this random guy, and he couldn't believe how happy Quirrell was as he beckoned him up to the door. He fumbled with the key, and Voldemort took the books from him to help him out. Even _that_ was out of character! What was this guy doing to him?

"Come on it. Make yourself at home!" Quirrell flipped on a light as they entered, and Voldemort shook his head a little at the small, messy apartment. A jacket had been tossed unceremoniously over a chair, and books were piled anywhere that books would fit. Nothing had a place, and if it did, it was far out of it. Quirrell was a bit flighty from what Voldemort could tell, so the mess didn't really surprise him.

Ears red again, Quirrell tried to tidy things up a bit, but he almost made it worse. "Sorry it's such a disaster in here. I'm not really used to company." He managed to make a spot for Voldemort to sit on the sofa and placed the new library books on top of the coffee table. "So, what would you like to drink?"

"Tea's fine." Voldemort knew better than to drink around somebody as sweet and caring as Quirrell. He always ended up belligerent and nasty after a few drinks, and he didn't want to do that to Quirrell.

"Tea it is!" Quirrell busied himself in the kitchen, putting the water on for the tea and readying a couple cups, and Voldemort took to watching him again. He noticed Quirrell kept making furtive glances to his wrist, and each time he looked at it, he became more distressed. Voldemort risked a glimpse at his own timer, which still read zero, and he sighed quietly.

A thought occurred to him. But no. That couldn't be. That would be cruel and unusual, and Voldemort didn't like to be on the receiving end of either of those.

He might as well ask Quirrell what was up. It could be something simple depressing him, like a long time until he met his soulmate? Voldemort swallowed. Or maybe not much time at all. Voldemort refused to consider the other option.

"Man, what's up with you? You keep glancing at the counter on your wrist."

"Oh, do I? Sorry." Quirrell smiled warily as he sat down across from Voldemort in the chair with the jacket on the back of it. Voldemort tried not to think about how Quirrell was going to smell like dirty clothes.

"Talk to me," he urged gently, not wanting to push too much, but he had to know now. The suspense would kill him if he didn't find out what the timer on Quirrell's wrist said.

"It's just, I was supposed to find my soulmate today, and they didn't show up. Or they did, and I missed them." Quirrell stared at his lap, unquestioningly dismayed. The dryness returned to Voldemort's throat. "I know it's not unusual for something like this to happen. I'd just really been looking forward to meeting them. For a minute, I'd been terrified that my soulmate was your friend. Bellatrix?"

Voldemort nodded, chuckling humorlessly. "Can't blame you there." Then Quirrell's timer had nearly reached zero when Bellatrix started torturing him. When Voldemort's timer was almost at zero. So when Voldemort rounded the corner, and Quirrell fell from the ladder…

"I just can't help but think that maybe they were disappointed in me. I know I don't look like much. Maybe they didn't like me?" Voldemort had been so determined to avoid his soulmate that he didn't even consider how they would take it. Hearing Quirrell say those things about himself reminded Voldemort what a selfish bastard he was for not even considering how his apathy would affect his soulmate.

"Don't be ridiculous. Anyone would be lucky to be your soulmate. Maybe they… they don't think they're good enough for you." Voldemort's hands started shaking again, and he clasped them together tightly. Thoughtlessly, Quirrell reached out his hand and placed it on top of Voldemort's, but he refused to look into those brown eyes. He knew what he would find there, and he wouldn't be able to handle it.

"You don't really think that's true, do you?"

Voldemort stared at their hands, furious at how his own had stopped shaking the moment Quirrell's fingers clasped them. This had been exactly what Voldemort wanted to avoid. How many years had he spent preparing to elude his soulmate? The whole thing was a waste of time!

But this was Quirrell. Quirrell, who made him smile and laugh. Quirrell, who didn't care about the way he looked. Quirrell, who deserved far better than him.

"I have to go." Voldemort stood abruptly and made for the door. He needed to escape before he did something he would regret later. Like get fucking committed to his soulmate.

"Voldemort." Quirrell's voice stopped him in his tracks like he knew it would. Son of a bitch, he already couldn't deny Quirrell anything. He stared at the front door, focusing on a crack that weaved from the top of the wood all the way to the bottom.

"Listen, Voldemort… You don't have to tell me that you don't want a soulmate. I can tell. But I really like spending time with you, either way. Do you think we could, I don't know… hang out from time to time? Just be friends?" Well, that didn't sound so bad, but it had the potential to be catastrophic. Quirrell would worm his way under Voldemort's skin, he just knew it. Soon, he wouldn't be able to resist Quirrell at all. But he couldn't deny that he liked spending time with the little squirrel, too.

"Yeah, that sounds okay." He looked at Quirrell over his shoulder, a slight smile curling his lips, and Quirrell beamed in response.

"Wonderful! I'll see you around, then."

"See you around." Voldemort fled while he still had the chance, while he could still keep convincing himself that he really didn't want anything to do with his soulmate. One thought of how happy Quirrell had been demolished that idea before he could even finish it. He just wanted to hang out. See Voldemort from time to time. It didn't even have to be all the time. That was perfectly okay, right?

Voldemort let his feet carry him, not really concerned where they planned on taking him. His thoughts kept going back to Quirrell. Endearing, adorable Quirrell with his charming smile and ridiculous love for flowers.

Maybe this soulmate thing wasn't so bad after all.

**Thanks again for reading! This will end up being multi-chapter. I'll try to have the next chapter done by the end of the week since I have a vague idea where this might go. Hope you enjoyed it!**


	2. Different as Can Be

**First of all, thank you. **_**Thank you**_**. I'm so happy to hear that quite a few of you are enjoying this. Nothing makes me happier. I hope you continue to love it! As always, I own nothing!**

"My lord, _what_ is going on with you?"

Voldemort stretched his legs out in the diner booth, sighing for what felt like the millionth time since he met Quirrell two days ago. He kept trying to tell himself that Quirrell didn't matter at all, and so far he'd failed miserably. He couldn't get the man out of his head! Voldemort kept thinking about his _smile_ and his _eyes_ and his fucking adorable _laugh_, and all that other disgusting, cliché romantic shit.

He just had to stay away from Quirrell. The more Voldemort was around him, the less he'd be able to resist Quirrell's charms, and he _had_ to resist. Just because his soulmate was so fucking precious did not mean that everything he'd lived for since he was a kid could be pitched out the window. He _didn't_ want his soulmate.

An annoying and illogical piece of his brain reminded him that Quirrell just wanted to be his _friend_.

Yeah, maybe. In Voldemort's experience, everyone had an ulterior motive. Why would Quirrell be any different? Everyone was the same. The Death Eaters wanted power and money. Quirrell had to want something. Voldemort just hadn't figured it out yet.

"Lord Voldemort, have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Voldemort glanced across the table at Lucius Malloy and Bellatrix, who were both staring at him expectantly. Ugh. They'd been driving him insane lately. They must have realized something was wrong with him because the two morons hadn't left him alone. It was becoming bothersome.

"Sure, you and Malloy were making evil plans. Like always. Keep up the good work, guys." He shut his eyes and crossed his arms, fully prepared to take a nap right there in the diner. That was another thing making him increasingly more agitated. Since he met Quirrell, he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Every time he tried to close his eyes, an incredible and annoying loneliness grew in his chest, so he quit trying. Damn Quirrell.

No, it wasn't Quirrell's fault. He didn't ask for any of this. As much as Voldemort wished he could blame and hate Quirrell for the way this whole soulmate affair affected him, he couldn't. It just wasn't that bloody squirrel's fault.

Voldemort sighed. If Quirrell could've chosen his soulmate, Voldemort would be willing to bet anything that he wouldn't have chosen _him_. Nobody as good-natured as Quirrell would choose him, an evil gang leader with a bad attitude who looked like a snake.

"You've been acting weird lately, my lord," Bellatrix haughtily pointed out, her arms crossed.

"Or I've been acting this way the whole time, and you just haven't been paying attention." He wasn't wrong. With everybody else, a single detail couldn't get past her, but Voldemort? No way. Bellatrix had a special way of overlooking anything that she didn't want to see when Voldemort was involved.

"I hate to agree, but Bellatrix is right," Lucius added with a flare of his wrist. "You have been rather odd these past couple days, ever since you insisted on going to the library."

Voldemort wished Malloy hadn't mentioned the library. He could almost _see_ Bellatrix's ears perk up as she tried to put two and two together. Or, what she thought was two and two.

"It's all that man's fault, isn't it? He injured you when he carelessly fell off the ladder at the library! I should have maimed him when I had the chance!"

"It's not his fault!" Voldemort grumpily hissed before he could stop himself. Damn it _all_, he was already defending the guy! When Malloy raised an eyebrow, Voldemort hastily added, "I mean, you're the one who pushed him, Bellatrix. Technically, it's _your_ fault."

"But _he's_ the one who fell on you!"

"Tell me more about this guy," Malloy insisted calmly. "You say he fell on you? And you've been acting strange ever since? I know it may be none of my business, but are you sure he wasn't your soulmate? Do you even have a timer on your wrist?"

Bellatrix looked horrified. "I shoved my lord's soulmate at him? How could I? I'm so sorry, my lord! I never meant to trouble you with such an inconvenience!"

"He wasn't my soulmate!" Voldemort snarled, unhappy with the way this conversation was going. His fingers unintentionally curled into fists. "He was just some guy! Some guy one of my own Death Eaters dropped on me! And yes, Milfoy, you're right. Whether I have a soulmate timer or not _isn't_ any of your fucking business."

"Forgive me, my lord, I was only asking because—"

"I'll think about letting you off the hook. Now, if you don't mind, I want to be alone." Voldemort stood up, already annoyed that half the diner was watching them. The owner glared mutinously at them from behind the counter, ready to throw them out, and Voldemort just didn't feel like dealing with the drama.

"I'll accompany you, my lord!" Trixie eagerly bounced to her feet.

"Do I need to define _alone_?" He slammed his fist down on the table, and she immediately deflated. Hell, Voldemort would've sworn even her hair deflated. Hmph! Serves her right for hovering all the fucking time! She slowly sat down, lowering her head, and Voldemort tried to ignore the pitiful expression on her face.

The whole diner was staring at him by now. Damn Death Eaters, always bringing attention to him when he didn't want it. Eager to get away from the stares, he stalked quickly out of the diner, leaving the two of them sitting there. Grumpily, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began to sulk. He was not acting unusual! The two of them were just doing things on purpose to get on his nerves. He turned up a street and tried to blend in with the crowd, glaring mutinously at the stone pavement.

Meeting Quirrell had done absolutely _nothing_ to change his life. He didn't care. Why would he care? Why should he give a shit whether some flowery nerd was his soulmate? Yeah, Quirrell was handsome and adorable and didn't care about the way he looked, but what did that have to do with anything? Sure, anyone would be lucky to have him as a soulmate, but…

Voldemort paused. _He_ wasn't just _anyone_. For all intents and purposes, he was the Dark Lord of the streets. Someone like him didn't _deserve_ Quirrell. He started to pace, nodding sternly to himself. When he saw Quirrell again—_if _he saw Quirrell again—he would just tell him that they probably shouldn't be friends. Voldemort was the wrong crowd, that one guy that Quirrell's parents probably warned him about when he was a kid. Bad news. Quirrell was a smart guy, certainly he would listen to reason.

That was it. Voldemort curled his fingers. He would tell Quirrell that he was just too dangerous, and that would be that. No more obligations (even though he didn't have any obligations anyways), no more soulmate, no more Quirrell.

He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. No more Quirrell. He'd only met the guy once so the idea of kicking him out of his life shouldn't depress him so much. Voldemort had never even guaranteed that he would ever _see _Quirrell again. It's not like he had his number or anything. Voldemort only knew where the guy lived.

Maybe, he thought hopefully. Maybe he wouldn't remember where the guy even lived! He hadn't really been paying attention (Quirrell was pretty distracting), so if he couldn't find his way back and avoided the library at all costs, he might never even see Quirrell again! Problem solved!

Shit, that just made him even more depressed…

"So how long are you going to stay out here before you decide to knock?"

Voldemort nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Quirrell's voice. He stared up at the apartments, at Quirrell standing in the doorway, smiling. Well, shit. Apparently, he _did_ know his way back to Quirrell's.

He floundered for something to say. "Oh, uh… you see…"

Quirrell raised an eyebrow. "Unless you don't want to come in?"

Voldemort gaped, feeling like an idiot, but he just didn't know what to _say_.

"You can go back to pacing, if you want. I'll leave the door open just in case. Feel free to let yourself in." Quirrell disappeared from the doorway. Voldemort imagined him sitting down on the sofa, reading a book or something. His palms started itching. This was it. His opportunity for a clean break from Quirrell. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and reached for the handle, fingers shaking.

_Damn it, Voldemort! Don't be such a pansy! Just get it over with!_

He walked in, not surprised to see the place in the same state it had been in two days ago. If possible, the living room was even messier. The books had been shoved aside to make room for stacks of paper that Quirrell was scratching his head over. Seeing Voldemort, he jumped to his feet and began to clear a spot for him to sit.

"Am I interrupting something?" Any excuse to put this off longer.

"Just grading papers," Quirrell answered with a sigh. "But I feel like I've been at it for hours. I could use a break. Please, make yourself at home!" Now that Voldemort had a better view of him, Quirrell didn't look so good. Of course, he was still fucking precious to behold, but he looked completely exhausted, like he hadn't been sleeping at all.

Shit. If he had any doubt before whether Quirrell was his soulmate, he didn't have it now. Neither one of them could sleep.

The annoying voice was back. _Because you're supposed to sleep together_.

_Shut up!_

"Grading papers? What are you, some kind of teacher?"

"A substitute teacher, actually. I haven't found a teaching job of my own yet, so I just fill in whenever I'm needed. All these papers are wearing me out! I'm exhausted."

Voldemort sank into the sofa beside Quirrell, words bubbling to his lips before he could stop them. "You don't look it."

Quirrell chuckled, beaming. "Thanks, Voldemort." His smile had been worth the compliment, Voldemort decided. Better to smile now, since he wouldn't be after Voldemort told him what he had to say.

But he didn't want to drop the ball just yet. "So why haven't you been sleeping? Having nightmares about essays or something?"

"Something like that." Quirrell was smiling again, a secretive and endearing smile, and Voldemort wondered what it was he'd said. "After I shut my eyes, I just can't get comfortable, no matter which way I turn."

"That, uh… That sucks, man." Voldemort let his eyes trail to the clothes that were still sitting on that chair. Didn't Quirrell _ever_ put anything in its place?

"So what's been keeping you up at night, Voldemort?" Quirrell asked innocently.

His gaze shot up again to see Quirrell smiling mysteriously again. Shit. He was much sharper than Voldemort had originally thought.

"I can tell you why, though I'm sure you already suspect it. That's just something we'll both have to get used to from now on." Voldemort felt a pain in his chest that he tried to ignore at the sight of the sadness in Quirrell's eyes, despite the smile he struggled to keep in place.

He had to do it now. "I'm not coming over here anymore."

Quirrell sighed. "To be entirely honest, I'm surprised you came over today. I was sure I'd never see you again."

"You were?" Voldemort frowned, eyes narrowed. Hadn't he agreed that they could try to be friends? Quirrell hadn't even _believed_ him? So much for having trust in his soulmate.

"Don't take it so offensively." Quirrell shrugged a little, unmoved by Voldemort's grumpy expression. "You just really didn't look to me like you wanted a soulmate, so I just assumed you'd steer clear of me. Sorry," he hastily added. "Even if you did end up coming back at some point, I never imagined it would be so soon. I suppose I wasn't far from the truth." He fidgeted, apologetic.

"Quirrell." Voldemort shook his head, trying to find all the reasons he'd decided on earlier, but none of them wanted to leave his mouth.

"No, it's okay, Voldemort. I get it. I wish I could be the kind of person you could at least be friends with, but I understand that I'm not really your type."

"What?" Voldemort blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. "Quirrell, no. No, listen. I… I'm no good for you, man! I run a gang of criminals! I terrorize people. I'm bad news, dangerous! Trixie almost hunted you down because she thought you hurt me the other day! The two of us just don't fit in each other's lives." Now that it was out in the open, even Voldemort had to admit how lame all that sounded. He wouldn't buy it for a minute.

And neither was Quirrell, who raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching. "This is about your club?"

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Gang, Quirrell! _Gang_!"

"I'm not afraid of your club, Voldemort." Quirrell went on as though he hadn't heard him at all. "I don't see why it's such a big deal to you."

"We're different, Quirrell!"

"So we are. Different as can be. So I like plotting a garden, and you like plotting to kill. Why is that such a bad thing?" Quirrell frowned at him wryly. "Unless there's something else?"

Voldemort glared down at his lap, frustrated at himself and at Quirrell, who had so easily excused his Death Eaters as a threat. Quirrell, a _fucking teacher_, didn't find a gang threatening at all.

"What about me, Quirrell? I'm not the kind of person you want to be around."

"You're my soulmate," said Quirrell quietly, suddenly serious. "How can you expect me not to want you in my life somehow?"

Well, shit. Voldemort was astounded that Quirrell just didn't give a fuck! He didn't care about Voldemort's past or the Death Eaters. He didn't even give a shit about the way Voldemort _looked_.

He had the sudden urge to kiss him. _Control yourself, would you?_ A kiss would ruin everything! Wouldn't it?

"In the end, it's your decision, Voldemort." Quirrell stood up and walked into the kitchen, probably to make a cup of tea. Voldemort's fingers clenched again in frustration at Quirrell giving up so easily. Sure, Voldemort _wanted_ him to give up, but Quirrell was making this far too simple for him!

"You can't just give up like that!" he snapped, surprising himself.

"Oh?" Now Quirrell sounded amused. That little shit!

"Yeah. If you really want me to stick around—every now and then, you know, and completely platonically—then you can't just leave it all up to me! I've been trying to get away since I met you! You've gotta fight for what you want!" He tried ignored the counterproductive turn this conversation had taken.

"You bring up an interesting topic, though." Oh, shit. Perfect. This was going to go well. Quirrell returned with two cups of tea. He handed one to Voldemort before curling back up on the couch with his own. "What is it about having a soulmate that terrifies you so much?"

Voldemort sighed. If there was one way to scare Quirrell away, it might be the horror story of his past. "You don't understand what my life has been like. Everyone has always left me or got tired of me, unless they want something." The Death Eaters wanted power. Bellatrix wanted sex on any surface that didn't move (and ten more points if it did move).

"So why should your soulmate be any different?" Quirrell asked bitterly as he took a sip of his steaming tea.

"Don't drink that yet, it's too hot!"

"So, let me get this straight. You just really don't want your soulmate? You think they're an inconvenience who will either leave you or use you until they don't want you anymore? Is that what I'm understanding?" When Quirrell said it like that, it sounded really bad. Voldemort stared down at the tea in his hands, watching the steam rise from the cup. Quirrell sounded so _pissed_. Voldemort didn't know he could even _get _angry.

"I'm sorry that's been your experience with people, but not everyone is out to use you." Quirrell's voice had gone up an octave, and he took a breath to restrain himself. "Do I want something from you? Yes. I want your _company_. I just want to be around you now and then. I _know_ I'm an inconvenience to you, and if I thought it would you happy at all, I would wish I wasn't your soulmate. But it wouldn't make you happy, Voldemort! Surely you know that somebody _can_ care about you, don't you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about! You've been loved your whole life!"

"Except by the one that matters most," Quirrell muttered severely to his cup.

Voldemort couldn't deal with this anymore. He set his untouched cup down on the table and stood up. "I need to go. Sorry for bothering you." He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickly made for the door. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to find his soulmate in the first place. Too many _emotions_.

"Yeah…well, it was nice meeting you, Voldemort."

He stopped walking, his feet frozen by the door. Only a couple more steps, and he's be free. Quirrell was giving him _exactly what he wanted_: an out. He never had to return after this. Quirrell didn't expect him to ever come back. He could go on with his life, terrorize innocent people, and be alone until the day he died. That's what he _wanted_.

He reached up to slick back his hair, cringing a little, and sighed. Deliberately, he turned around and walked back over to the couch, where Quirrell was watching him curiously. Grumpily, he sat back down and picked up his cup of tea to take a sip.

"How did you know I don't put anything in my tea?"

"Intuition." Quirrell smiled a little, confused. "I'm getting mixed signals here, Voldemort."

"Sorry. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, either." He shrugged and set the cup back down, clearing his throat a little. "Do you want to do something?"

Quirrell hesitated, and Voldemort could feel the silence thickening the air. "We could watch _She's All That_? I've, um… I've never seen the end of it."

"I've never seen the beginning!" Voldemort's face split into a grin, and Quirrell chuckled in disbelief.

"You were ready to storm out of here a second ago, and now you want to watch a movie?"

"I guess you convinced me?"

"I'm not buying it, but…Okay. Let's order out and watch that movie!"

Voldemort tried not to think of how the whole evening sort of ended up being a date of sorts (if he thought too much about it, his eyes would start flickering to the door and an escape plan began to form in his mind). They ordered Chinese (Voldemort made Quirrell let him pay for his, too, since he'd been a bit of an ass all day) and stretched out on the couch, the papers Quirrell had been grading long forgotten. Voldemort had to agree that the movie was much better from beginning to end. When that one was over, Quirrell suggested _Hairspray!_, and Voldemort never was one to turn down a Zefron movie.

"If I ever say no to a movie with Zefron, it means I'm seriously ill," he explained, much to Quirrell's amusement. _Damn_, he could be cute sometimes.

About halfway through the movie, Quirrell nodded off, his head falling unceremoniously onto Voldemort's shoulder. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, surprised that the random weight wasn't unwelcome. He didn't have the heart to wake him yet. Just a little longer, he kept telling himself as the movie grew fuzzier. He yawned once, and before he knew it, it was morning, and he was still on the couch, only on his back and with Quirrell cozy and warm on top of him. That wasn't the alarming thing.

What scared the shit out of him was how he hadn't slept better in his entire life.

**Sorry it took so long before I finished this! I hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter will be out soon. Thank you for reading!**


End file.
